


All our times have gone

by alexiel_neesan



Series: Survie [2]
Category: DCU
Genre: Blood, Gen, Injury, Post-Apocalypse, Wordcount: 500-1.000, urban survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiel_neesan/pseuds/alexiel_neesan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots of the Survie 'verse, with blood as a linking thread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All our times have gone

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
> Title: "All our times have gone"  
> Fandom: DCU/Batman  
> Rating: R  
> Characters: Jason, Tim, Dick, Damian.
> 
> Summary:  _for munnin_odanin: Jason, Tim, Dick, Damian (any combination there of), Bleeding out_.  Takes place in the same universe as [Worn Out For Good.](http://alexiel-neesan.dreamwidth.org/189498.html)
> 
> Title from Blue Oyster Cult's (Don't Fear) the Reaper.

Dick’s not bleeding out, in the remains of the Tower’s Cave, it only feels like it. Stitching his own skin back together, he can barely see what he does. No light, except for the portable ones. Emergency lights went under, like everything else. Like the structural integrity of the north side of the Tower’s ‘Cave, and the power grid for Gotham, and the docks, and the bridges...

He knows because he managed to get the last images, the last information. He needs to get out, to regroup with the rest of– he can’t say his people, exactly, not really. He’s not Bruce.

They’re outside. They are all outside, as safe as they can be.

He’s inside and his blood keeps flowing between the stitches.

/

Damian- it doesn’t happen on patrol. It doesn’t even happen as he’s in uniform -and he almost always is, these days, like Dick, like Tim, like the others who stayed in, stayed here, stayed for Gotham. To think someone, anyone, would manage to catch him during that almost impossible moment where he’s not at the camp, when he’s not in uniform... It’s just bad luck and circumstances playing against him. The assassins that make him bleed bleed out in his place, the blood so red in the grey lights of Gotham’s skies.

He spits on the corpse, watching the damp ground try and fail to soak in the liquid.

The corpse isn’t there the next morning, the imprint of a red-hued pool the only thing left behind. The imprint and a gash that heals and scars too slowly in Damian’s flesh.

/

There are nightmares- he can’t shake them. He can still feel his life bleeding out of him, can feel every single blow that killed him- then the broken fingers to get out, the hurt and the confusion. But it’s the feeling of his life running out that terrify him the most.

It’s hard to warm up, harder and harder as the days shorten. It feels like dying, like being not there all over again, and his head doesn’t stay focused on what he has to do, who he has to talk to, who he shares a tent and food with.

A bomb blast gets him –normal people use those, now. He runs across the city with guns on his hips and the rest of them former bats do not bat a lash anymore –the rest of them use guns too. Metal and dirt pelt his face– an arm hastily thrown up save his eyes. Not his cheeks, not his jaw, not his lips. Blood pours down- warm blood, warmer than anything he touched in months, warm life...

And all he can see is his life running out again.

/

Tim looks up- that sounds like he has a choice. He doesn’t.

His face is turned to the skies, grey and overcast and like they have been since it started -it, because names have powers and there is enough going on without giving more power to the events- there is nothing to see. Nothing but grey and the black of the buildings surrounding him, nothing but cold and the clouds made by his shallower and shallower breaths. There’s a growl, a scrap of claw on the asphalt –he’d twitch, he’d muster up strength if there was anything to twitch toward, to get strength for.

He hopes it’ll go fast, this time.

His head rolls to the side, his fingers twitch. He can see his rifle, he thinks. He can see his rifle and his blood flowing out of the injuries the claws gave him –a mere half-heartbeat earlier, maybe less, but all he can know is his slowing heartbeat, all he can know is the taste of his blood filling his lung, all he can know is the liquid keeping him alive drowning him.

Then there's too much noise and the smell of gunpowder over the metallic red, and Tim knows no more.

/end  
   



End file.
